


go places

by balconys



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, The Kagehis go to the Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balconys/pseuds/balconys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month emerging from their apparent stardom, they manage to make it out alive - but just barely. Kageyama’s head still reels when the TV spits out his name between unbearably cloying afternoon shows, the screen zeroing in to Hinata bounding across courts like a bird in flight, in that overly dramatic way the producers used to make the idiot look cooler than he actually is. A waste if anything, Kageyama thinks, because seven years later Hinata is still an idiot, albeit a popular one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	go places

**Author's Note:**

> repost from tumblr. written for kagehinaweek 2014, day 4 for the prompt song lyrics. written to go places by the new pornographers

 

> _Come hell or full circle_  
>  _Our path blocked but sure we’ll_  
>  _Make records, then set them_  
>  _Make copies, win races_  
>  _Stay with me, go places_  
>  _[O](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yBo2qEzyHzE)nce more for the ages_

 

A month emerging from their apparent stardom, they manage to make it out alive - but just barely. Kageyama’s head still reels when the TV spits out his name between unbearably cloying afternoon shows, the screen zeroing in to Hinata bounding across courts like a bird in flight, in that overly dramatic way the producers used to make the idiot look cooler than he actually is. A waste if anything, Kageyama thinks, because seven years later Hinata is still an idiot, albeit a popular one; unsurprising, because beneath the height deficiency and general dumbness, Hinata can rack up more points than any of the other rookies that have climbed and toiled their way up to brush shoulders with legends.

Equally anxiety-inducing is the fact that they get drafted into the same team as Bokuto, of all things, who turns out to be absurdly even _louder_ than he remembers him to be they were sixteen; almost as annoying as Hinata, even. Almost. The man is adamant and cannot accept the reality that Kageyama has the biggest billboard advertisement among the three of them. It’s just a stupid Pocari Sweat ad, Kageyama says behind the driver’s seat as Bokuto’s car sails down the highway at midday; (he is a stable enough driver, he’s surprised to find, but Kageyama still keeps Akaashi on speed dial, just in case). Behind the window the ad looms meteoric next to an HD TV buzzing in technicolor, and Hinata presses his face against the window and sighs, _uwah_ , _coooool._

Some things change, some don’t, and seven years later Kageyama’s synapses have yet to attune themselves to anything that resembles praise; he grips Hinata’s collar and peels him away from the fifty-foot tall version of himself with a tempered-steel stare. Hinata makes a sound in his throat but sinks into his side anyway, pliant, cheek melded into the slope of Kageyama’s shoulder. Afternoons like this leave them vulnerable. It reminds them of home, its abundance of leaves, a sun-shelled, recurrent dream. For Hinata especially, who is a creature of the sun by nature, the summer roosting itself deep beneath his skin and leaving him curled up against his side like a dormant mouse. Kageyama knows the boy misses it. For so long they’ve been setting their sights on the world’s tallest perches looking back leaves them a little sentimental and quiet, gazing out windows with a strange kind of longing.

Beside him Hinata yawns a yawn that seems to reach down into his toes, his breath leaving traces of gooseflesh along Kageyama’s arm. Hong Kong is a beautiful place, but it doesn’t quite have the same sky. Beyond, the city throbs with its sleepy, golden song, and Kageyama stares at the light collecting along Hinata’s eyelashes, thinks, _maybe it’s not that bad._

“Oho, oh man,” Bokuto suddenly says, grin a little too lecherous as it gleams from the rear-view mirror. “So this is what Kuroo was talking about.”

“What is?” He tries to sound spiteful but he feels too languid, too boneless.

Bokuto laughs in response and breaks into a lewd pop song Kageyama vaguely remembers. “Quiet, idiot’s sleeping,” he snaps, which only manages to make Bokuto grin wider, an expression he wears up until they get their groceries, Hinata and Kageyama walking perfectly in step to retrieve eggs, juice boxes, cereal, shoulders ghosting, the lightest of brushes.

“What?” Hinata asks them, after Kageyama nearly rams the cart right into a tower of impeccably stacked cans of pork and beans, his ears ablaze.

“ _Nothing_ , _“_ he wheezes, expression frayed, and whips an arm out at Bokuto, who backpedals easily behind a row of canned sardines, his laugh bouncing off the tiles. Kageyama decides that Hinata is simply just too entrenched in his admiration for the man to realize that Bokuto is an annoying, vulgar man who likes to make inappropriate suggestions at even more inappropriate times.

"Ah, young love. Magnificent!” Bokuto booms, later with their brown paper bags as Hinata holds the door open for Kageyama, his arms full of egg cartons.

Hinata sends him a look that’s full of questions, but he shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he repeats, and aims for Bokuto’s shin when Hinata isn’t looking - they’re all professionals now, he concludes, so the sports hierarchy must be irrelevant.

 

* * *

 

They still get stormed with interviews, long after the propulsive energy of the Olympics fizzes into a satisfied murmur. How does it feel to be a champion at such a young age? How long have you been playing volleyball? Do you like Korean food? The questions are always so mindless, Kageyama wonders how Hinata can stay awake for the most of them. At least the food’s better, Hinata finds, which is somewhat on point. They’ve been subsisting on instant noodles and sports drinks and 5-minute microwavable dinners for months perhaps they’ve simply forgotten how real food tasted like. The lodgings, too, are substantially better; apparently now that they’re what the magazines phrase as “volleyball ambassadors”, hopping on flights all over Asia “to spread the passion for the game and nurture other young, budding talents”, they actually get decent beds now. More than decent, actually - he remembers the first night their manager gave them the key to what they realized too late was the room to a five-star hotel, Hinata bursting through the doors like the day they won the nationals, jersey and all, flopping shamelessly into a glorious, glorious bed, only to prance into the bathroom that had marble flooring and marble walls and marble everything (“Look, Kageyama - _hot water!_ ”).

Truthfully, he is pretty grateful about the entire thing. The ball still snaps like a pulse of his own, every day brings them more games to play, and always, Hinata stays, like a brand by his side (perhaps grateful might not be the best word). The flights are still stuffy, they still think of home, and Hinata still loses their hotel room cards more often than once, accidentally leaving them behind in taxi cabs, down the depths of the pockets of a pair of jeans he might’ve left hanging in some random shower room. Kageyama knows he should be used to it, but the irritation prickles in through his nose nonetheless, so he breathes, the way a fellow setter taught him in high school not so long ago, nice and easy, that’s right,

“Found it!” Hinata chirps, breathless, hovering around the contents of his bag strewn all over the carpeted floor like debris. He slides a white keycard with silver engraving into the lock, and a little light by the knob blinks green.

Cold air wafts against his cheek as the door creaks open, tugging them in, and Hinata stutter-steps inside and collapses face first into the single bed. “ _Finally_ ,” he moans, hair mussed against the sheets. “‘M so tired.”

Kageyama hums in agreement. The day feels like a sore ache seeping into his muscles, so he follows Hinata into the mattress and crumbles against a pillow. He knows the boy is way beyond his limit for the day, too tired to even speak, so he orders them dinner through the telephone. When the call ends Hinata is still curled stone-still behind his back.

“Shoes. Take them off,” Kageyama orders, but Hinata remains motionless, face buried into the dark blue comforter.

“Too tired,” comes the reply, muted through the cloth. Outside rain begins to fall in faint overtures, pattering in whispered sheets down the window.

“You’re a spoiled brat,” Kageyama tells him, but leans over to undo the laces on his running shoes anyway, letting the pair fall with a thud over the side of the bed. He tears the socks off next, white with orange stripes, gingerly chucking them somewhere behind him with great disinterest.

When he straightens Hinata is grinning boyishly up at him, a little more alive, arms folded behind his neck. “Oh my, my, Kageyama-kun,” he croons, mincing. He wiggles his pale toes in front of Kageyama’s nose. “This is all too sudden.”

Unamused, he slaps his ankles away. “Your feet’s all gross and wrinkly.”

“Rude,” Hinata makes a disapproving sound. His leg slumps back onto the bed. “See, this is why I have more fans than you.”

“Please,” Kageyama scoffs. “like those girls a while ago paid any attention to you.”

Hinata perks up at that. “W-well, that’s ‘cause—”

“You’re too short they didn’t even notice you.”

“Because they have a thing for uptight guys like you!” He points a toe accusingly at the boy. “And it’s not like you cared about them either. You gotta pay more attention to your supporters, you know. Smile. Wave. Be a decent human being, at least. You wouldn’t even sign her volleyball.”

“We were going to be late for a _practice match_.”

"No, you’re just a meanie. Accept it, Kageyama,” he says, and then his teeth flash, “Like when that lady kissed you on the cheek—”

Kageyama sends him a look so sharp it can probably draw blood. “Don’t even go there.”

But Hinata soldiers on, eyes bright, “Oh man, it was just on the cheek and it was like you combusted or something, you even _yelled_ at her, oh man, I feel so bad for her—”

“Hinata,” Kageyama warns, low in his throat.

“And then there was that grandma by the convenience store—”

“Shut _up_ —”

"—your face when she g-grabbed your butt, aha—”

Kageyama springs from the foot of the bed like an arrow and tackles him, smothering his laughter with a pillow. The boy quivers beneath him, bursts of teasing giggles dispersing the sound of rain.

“Y-you win,” Hinata laughs again, once Kageyama gives him air; shards of bubbling laughter trickle from his pink mouth. He smiles at him like all he has ever known, childlike, not a trace of the boy from those horrid commercials. He teases: “You win. I take it back - you _do_ have more fans than me.”

Kageyama drags him down by the legs until they are nose to nose, Hinata’s face eclipsed in shadow. “Jealous?” he murmurs quietly against his lips. Hinata’s mouth parts in a slow exhale, and it blisters against his mouth; he can feel Hinata’s bird-heart fluttering frantically against his chest, a trilling song, and liquid heat begins to pool in his cheeks, along every patch of skin that touches his.

"Hmmm,” his eyes fall to the side in a mock show. “Nah.”

He breaks into another round of laughter as Kageyama’s expression sours. Wordlessly, Hinata curls his fingers around both his ears and angles their faces once again.

“I, uh, I want to kiss you,” he tells him stupidly, licking his lips in contemplation.

Kageyama blinks, “okay,” and swallows, unbidden. He is so close their stomachs brush when they breathe, but the boy is just staring at his mouth— “Well, hurry up would y—”

Hinata swallows the rest, kisses him slow and deep; something unspools in Kageyama’s chest and he begins to burn, Hinata’s fingers like matches igniting against his nape, forest fire in his blood, the night long forgotten and nothing but breath and the sun in his bed and,

The doorbell rings. For a few seconds they grin idiotically at each other, noses bumping, until Hinata’s stomach voices its disapproval.

“Fetch our food, slave,” Hinata snickers, and slaps his butt as the boy rises from the sheets, just because.

Kageyama kicks him off the bed.  
  
(It is a good day, he decides.)

 


End file.
